


We musn't touch--Seriously, don't touch.

by inusagi



Series: We mustn't... [3]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, M/M, and mutilation, for the folks in the back, for the love of god please head the graphic depictions of violence warning, heavy torture, i mean...really graphic, lots of blood, really really graphic, this is a bit of "Ask and ye shall recieve"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4110750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inusagi/pseuds/inusagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As requested, an extended scene from We mustn't touch what isn't ours--Harry vs Dean. </p><p>Dean has made poor life choices and Harry is not pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We musn't touch--Seriously, don't touch.

**Author's Note:**

> I had several requests for an extended "director's cut" of this scene, so I have done my best to provide it. Please enjoy your 1k additional words of horrific torture, you twisted, twisted lovelies. 
> 
> I have also endeavored to make this as medically accurate as possible without either obtaining a medical degree or tying some poor soul up in my shed. There was extensive research...I have seen some things, guys, that I can't unsee. 
> 
> That said, if you know something I don't know, feel free to let me know. I'm happy to learn/repair.

Harry considered himself a rather reasonable man, no matter what Percival said.

Yes, alright, he did have an unfortunate habit of killing people who failed to live up to the basic expectations of human decency and good manners, but he really didn’t consider that a _character flaw_. It was more...taking one for the team, as it were, or taking out the rubbish.

It irritated him, a bit, how few people saw the...bright side of his particular vocation. It seemed to Harry that fulfilling his urges was much the same as what he did when he Galahad. He did the dirty work, without recognition, for the greater good.

What was the difference, really, between disarming a dirty bomb to save thousands in Cardiff city centre and choking the life out of a junkie who had abysmal enough manners to harass young women on the street?

No, what he did in his...private life did as much for the happiness of society as what he did in his professional life, if on a smaller scale. So what if it satisfied his own dark, selfish urges at the same time? All the more reason, to Harry’s mind.

Much more irritating than the implication that he needed assistance of the mental health variety was the playful, mocking way that Merlin and Percival insisted that he made a habit of killing anyone who “wronged” Eggsy.

It was only _twice_. And he insisted that it wasn’t _about_ Eggsy. Those three men had to be taken out for the sake of _Kingsman_.

How could he expect his agents to jump headfirst into danger when they couldn’t be sure the extraction team would be there when needed? How could he allow someone into their organization who was the very antithesis of what Kingsman stood for?

It was true that Eggsy was the catalyst in both situations, but it wasn’t as if he went around slaughtering anyone the boy came in contact with. He wasn’t such a violent beast that he didn’t recognize that their young Galahad could fight his own battles. He didn’t have to _protect_ Eggsy. He didn’t have to _kill for_ Eggsy.

This was a sentiment he repeated to himself often.

It was also one that went out the window when Eggsy came home three hours late with a nasty, mottled bruise covering his cheek.

Eggsy, bless him, took one look at Harry’s face and spread his arms out in a futilely placating gesture. “Now, ‘Arry, I took care o’ it. Everyfin’s all good.”

“What happened?”

“Dead serious, ‘Arry, I—“

Harry crowded forward, grasping Eggsy’s handsome face. He turned it into the light to get a better view of the bruise. His cheek was slightly puffy, but definitely not broken—a sign of an unskilled brawler with a loose punch. Not a professional, then. “What. Happened?” he repeated. He tried to keep his voice calm, but knew that his impatience was seeping out.

Eggsy stayed predictably silent. Once upon a time, Harry saw this stubborn refusal to snitch was endearing and admirable. These days, it was mostly inconvenient and annoying.

He sighed. “Eggsy, I am the head of an international espionage organization. Please don’t do me the disservice of thinking I couldn’t find out exactly what happened to your face in within the hour. It’s insulting.”

Eggsy pulled away, groaning, and plopped down on the sofa. “There’s a new girl at Daisy’s school. A teacher.”

The boy wasn’t looking at him, and Harry wasn’t about to hinder what was very obviously the confession he’d asked for by interrupting. It was a close thing, though, because there was no way a nursery school teacher had landed a punch on a trained assassin.

“She didn’ know Daisy’s dad ain’t allowed to pick her up.”

Everything in Harry went cold.

Before he could say anything, Eggsy looked at him, hands reaching out to tug Harry’s shirt sleeve. “She’s fine,” he said quickly. “I got ‘er. She’s at Mum’s watchin’ Mulan.”

He let himself be pulled closer, let Eggsy wrap his arms around his hips and press his forehead into Harry’s stomach, let his fingers tangle themselves into Eggsy’s soft hair.

“I kicked ‘is door in. Righ’ off the hinges,” he laughed. “Like Action Man or summat. Now, ‘e didn’ like that, o’ course, so, ya know, he took a swing.”

Eggsy snuggled closer, wrinkling Harry’s crisp white shirt. “But then my gun was in ‘is face an’ he wasn’ so feisty. Gave Dais over wif no more hassle. Dean don’t care about nuffin more’n saving ‘is own skin.”

Harry took a deep breath, struggling to stay calm against the twitching darkness that was filling him up. He could tell that Eggsy was giving him a...sanitized version of events. He did it with dangerous missions, too—downplaying his injuries, primarily. “Did you kill him?”

“Christ, ‘Arry. Course not.”

“Is he in hospital?”

“No.”

He sighed. From the way Eggsy pinched at his side, he’s sure that the boy thought he was frustrated at him for not finishing the job.

It couldn’t be further from the truth. He was _relieved_. He could _have_ this. He could have Dean. He could make him _suffer_ , truly suffer, for the things he’d done to Harry’s family.

It had been so, so long since he’d had the chance to truly let himself go. The parachute incident, as people were calling it, was months ago, and even that didn’t have any real _satisfaction_. What he’d told Merlin was true—he’d only really given the boy a chance to fall on his own sword.

But this? This was practically a gift.

He smiled down at his beautiful boy. “Did you at least put ice on your cheek?”

☂Ⓚ☂

Waiting for Dean to wake up was, frankly, tedious.

It was always the most tedious part, to be completely honest. Not only was he practically shaking in anticipation of what was to come, there wasn’t much to keep one amused in conveniently abandoned mills. He used to bring along books to read, but they’d invariably be sprayed with blood or some such. It just seemed wasteful.

He contented himself with checking Dean’s restraints once more before sitting across from him. Their chairs were identical—sturdy wooden chairs that had been left in the foreman’s office. They were heavily graffitied—Lucky Dean got the one covered in cocks, because, really, it was just _vulgar_ —but would assuredly take quite a bit of struggling. Ah, the craftsmanship of yesteryear.

Dean was, of course, tightly bound. Lengths of sturdy rope coiled around the man’s ankles, waist, chest and wrists. He wasn’t tied up quite tightly enough to cut off circulation, but tightly enough to give the _impression_ that it would. It had taken him many years to perfect that.

Harry had left his victim ungagged. He couldn’t wait to find out how beautifully screams would echo in such a large, empty space.

As if recoiling from Harry’s musings, the other man stirred. There were a few moments of sleepy, slow confusion before they gave way to panic.

“Ah, Dean. I’m so glad you could join me,” he said, talking over the man’s frantic swearing as pleasantly as if he were enquiring about the weather. “I was beginning to think I’d gotten the dosage wrong. How terribly disappointing that would have been.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

He smiled and uncrossed his legs. “My name is Harry. I’m a...friend of the family, you might say. And you and I are about to become _such_ good friends indeed.”

“Listen, Granddad, I don’t think—“ he started, face red with impotent rage. Harry knocked him in the side of the head with the handle of his umbrella.

“Now, Dean. I have a very important question for you.”

“Yeah? Wot?”

“Are you right handed, or left handed?”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Fuck you, old man.”

Harry rolled his eyes and stood, resting his umbrella against his empty chair. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said. “What a good friend you are. You see, I was only going to break your dominant hand, but now I think I’ll break both. But first, I think you need a bit of a lesson on throwing a punch.”

Harry made a show of situating his fist correctly—thumb tucked out of harm’s way, the knuckles of his index and middle fingers thrust slightly forward—and struck Dean as hard as he could in the side of the face.

The resulting crack was loud in the empty room, as was the angry swearing that followed. Dean’s cheek began to swell instantly.

Not one to slow down when he’s on a roll, Harry turned his attention to Dean’s left hand. He started with the man’s little finger, pulling it further and further out until a jagged bone punctured its way through the flesh. He wished for a moment that he had gagged Dean—the snap of the bone was disappointingly drowned out by the man’s screaming.

“Holy fuck, you mad fucking geezer! What the fuck are you—“

Harry broke the next finger. He heard that one.

He felt _amazing_. This feeling, this power, this overwhelming darkness was what he lived for. He’d lived his entire life, fifty odd years, thinking that these stolen, bloody moments were the only times he’d feel truly happy, that his soul would feel _settled_.

Until Eggsy swaggered into his life.

And this degenerate would have taken that away from him today, if his boy hadn’t have been stronger. He’d _taken_ Daisy. He’d _hurt_ Eggsy. And now he’d pay.

Harry broke the third finger and waited until Dean’s agonized screams died down before breaking his thumb as well.

“Now, there is a crucial lesson to be learned here, Dean,” he said, grasping the index finger of his companion’s mangled hand. “We mustn’t touch what isn’t ours.”

 _Snap_.  

“I dunno what you’re talking about, mate, I swear, I ain’t never seen you before!”

“Yesterday, you threatened people very dear to me. You abducted a little girl. You _struck_ Eggsy. These actions are unacceptable, Dean, and you’ll spend these last precious hours of your life regretting them.”

Dean was practically howling at this point and it took a bit for Harry’s words to sink in through the pain. He started laughing, a mad, hysterical edge clinging to the sound. “Eggsy? Oh, fucking hell, this is about _Eggsy_?”

Harry didn’t respond. He was content to let the man laugh himself out.

For a bit.

“Oh, this if fuckin’ rich, this is. How much ya pay him so that he’ll letcha stick it up ‘is arse? I been wonderin’ an’ all.”

He squeezed Dean’s hand. “If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your mouth, I shall be forced to cut it out.”

Dean laughed again. “This is fuckin’ ridiculous, mate. Ya gotta see that. You’re breakin’ a stranger’s fuckin’ bones for a bloody rentboy.”

Harry sighed and retrieved some tools from a nearby table. “You were warned,” he said before prying the man’s jaw open and inserting the dental block. “You can’t say that you weren’t warned.”

He was finally getting the kind of struggle he’d anticipated. Dean shook his head wildly, making the frightened, guttural sounds of a trapped animal. Harry trapped the man’s slimy tongue with a pair of clamping pliers and yanked it out.

His knife was sharp—after all, a gentleman always maintains his tools for the utmost efficiency—and sliced through the muscle as easily as it would soft butter. Blood flowed from Dean’s mouth with all the force of a waterfall.

Harry tossed the limp, useless tongue onto the grimy floor.

“Now, I believe you still have five unbroken fingers. Let’s see what we can do to remedy that, hmm?”

Dean struggled against his restraints, curling his fingers into a resistant fist. He was gurgling and sputtering more think, cupric blood down the front of him in what Harry assumed was an attempt at pleading.

Unimpressed, Harry studied he man’s tight fist and wondered if breaking the entire hand at once would cause more pain than prying the fingers apart.

“Ah,” he said, noting the discolouration streaking across ham-fisted knuckles. “So you _are_ right-handed. This is the hand you used to strike Eggsy.”

He picked up an auto-injector device that he’d placed on the table earlier. “I have some good news for you, Dean,” he said, and jabbed the man in the thigh with the epi-pen. “I’m not going to break your hand. I’ve changed my mind.”

Harry smiled his predator’s smile, not surprised in the least that Dean looked anything but relieved. “I’ve just given you a dose of epinephrine. Adrenaline, you might know it as. It won’t hurt you. It will, however, keep you from fainting or going into shock before we’re done catching up. That wouldn’t be fun at all, would it, Dean?”

Dean answered with more struggling and gurgling. “I’m afraid not breaking your hand was a bit of a good news-bad news situation. The good news was, indeed, that I won’t be snapping your chubby little fingers like twigs. The bad news...well, the bad news is that I’m going to cut the flesh from your bones until there’s so little left, even the rats won’t bother.”

He’d never placed his knife back down, and it felt a bit as if he’d known the entire time they’d come to this extreme. He pried Dean’s index finger from the others and made a single, careful slice over the bruised knuckle. The other man gargled and sputtered. He tried to pull away from Harry’s firm grasp, but instead forced the blade deeper into his flesh until it tapped with gentle horror against his bone.

Harry drew the knife downwards with deliberate, satisfying slowness. Dean screams were a deafening, guttural symphony in his ears as he peeled the man’s fingers like squirming potatoes. He admired the helpless, feeble way the tendons twitched, the way the man’s blood pooled around his blessedly-intact palm, the resistance that the jagged fingernails gave up to Harry’s knife.

He felt as though reality had frozen in a ridiculously surreal, vivid way. Colours were brighter—the pearled sheen of Dean’s bones was at both an intense, brilliant white and a lovely prism of rainbow hues. The blood—everywhere by now—was fiercely red in contrast to their dull, dusty surroundings. He could almost hear their heartbeats echo over his own heavy breathing and his companion’s throaty wails.

He wondered, in a distracted, abstract way, how a flayed hand would look in motion, and was distantly surprised to see his hand rising to press his signet ring into the wretch’s throat. And, _Christ Almighty_ , it was beautiful—the helplessly jerking bones, grinding in their nakedness, the arc of blood flung about with every movement, the scent of ammonia filling the air as Dean wet himself, and _oh_ , the screams. Those glorious, agonized wails.

Harry rather thought— _hoped_ —hell itself would sound like this, and forced himself to push past the lethargic euphoria slowing him down. If he allowed himself to bask much longer, Dean would lose consciousness, epinephrine be damned.

“You still have a few lessons to learn before we’re done this evening,” he said, almost breathless with the sinister thrum of happiness. “I hope you’re having as much fun as I am.”

He brought his knife back up into Dean’s mutilated mouth. “You used your charming liar’s smile on that teacher. Lies drip from your lips like honey from a spoon, Dean, and you convinced that poor, gullible teacher that Daisy belongs with you.”

In one, fluid tug, Harry sliced through the man’s face, from lips to cheekbone, and hooked the knife in the other side of his mouth while he thrashed through this new pain.

“Daisy belongs with me—me and her brother.”

Another tug, and Dean’s face was split open in a gory, grotesque smile. Harry smiled back, and stabbed his captive in the chest, knife sliding just between two ribs. He repeated the process on the opposite side.

“You, my new friend, do not even deserve to breathe the same air as my Daisy. And so...you won’t.”

Dean was gasping for air, bringing in precious little through his mouthfuls of blood and collapsed lungs.

This was a man who would never harm his loved ones again. Those were hands that would never again leave bruises on his lover’s soft, smooth skin.

“She won’t even remember you.”

Harry sat back in his chair and watched, rapt, as the man’s nostrils flared (In anger? In his struggle for oxygen? Harry wasn’t sure), as his lips turned blue and his eyes widened a few moments later in realization that this truly was the end. He watched as Dean breathed his last, shuddering breath. He watched a bit longer, even, letting himself succumb to the dark satisfaction of his own handiwork before rising to straighten his tie and brush a bit of dust from the knees of his pressed trousers.

He glanced at his watch and hummed a pleased hum. He had a date with Eggsy in an hour, and for once, he would be on time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3  
> [](http://statcounter.com/)


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